APH: Jinx
by mistermakara
Summary: The anatomy of a seduction, or at least through Poland's perspective. Intended to be slightly satirical, if not just ironic. LietPol, implied RusLiet.


**[[Copypasta'd from deviantART. :U**

**This was originally more smutty, or at least I was trying to make it smutty before I went "oh fuck this" and deleted that paragraph. I do not have smut talents. **

**Review please *o* It feeds my soul. ]]**

"Like, _Lieeeet_..."

I'd practiced this expression in the mirror several times before, and was pretty sure I had it down-lips parted a sensuous half-inch, eyelids half-closed, giving off the sense of a flustered little boy just recently woken. In this case, the little boy was looking over his slightly timid lover with childish skepticism; ah, yes, that was it. I was worried about him, in the sense that I was sick of him coming home, slumping himself over my shoulder, and simply weeping over God-knows-what. Ivan couldn't possibly be _that_ bad, could he? In that sense, I was jealous of him; he was stripping away Liet's attention on me and replacing it with nightmares. He had come home to me one evening without his coat-it had been stolen on the bus or something-and he was trying desperately to hide the thin rows of scars that went up and down his arms.

(He later told me, through hiccuping sobs, that they had been opened again and swabbed with vodka, which was a little disturbing to think about. I held him close and let him get my favorite shirt wet with tears, his cheeks flushed red. Anything for him. "God damn him-h-he doesn't even (sob) _know_"...)

He'd been crying in the bathroom this time, perhaps catching the message, and had flopped back onto the bed. I leaned against the bedboard, almost hovering over him, sitting Indian-style. I bit and sucked on my lip, putting on my best nervous expression, as if to imply the shift of power was a little unsettling.

I knew Liet was aware of cliché, and that was why the acts I put up, the shows I put on, were always intricate. I took his hand and smiled, keeping the expression in my eyes blank and completely _stupid_.

"Awww, like, Li_eeeet_, like, don't cr_yyy_..."

And the _voice_. Oh my God, the voice was everything. An ordinary sentence peppered with "ohmigod" and "like" and "totally" would often suffice, but in circumstances like this, I usually added an earnest, saccharine tone. I would save the best for later.

"You should, like, take off your coat...it's all, like, wet..." I injected a worried tone into my voice, and toned down the sweetness to make it seem childishly authoritative. As if I was a grade-schooler asking for a toy. Even in my twenties I kept up the immaturity; you would not _believe_ what it did to Liet.

You would not believe what _I_ did to Liet.

He accepted my slacker's tendencies with a painstaking smile.

(There was one occasion where I saw him carrying in the long row of cups and glasses I had left on the nightstand, some of them still containing a small ring of vodka and cranberry juice or whatever I had found in the cabinet.

I had said, "Like, Liet, I'm so sorry!" There was a self-deprecating tone in my voice, which became more apparent within my next sentences.

"For what?"

"For, like, not cleaning up!"

"It's fine," he replied, beginning to unload the dishwasher and setting the glasses on the counter.

"But, like, I leave my shit _everywhere_. I should totally like, be helping you! Or, like, arranging flowers or something." I paused, pouting slightly. "Like, all I've done today is play Solitaire and, like, pet the cat that lives next door!"

He frowned, closing the dishwasher and turning to me. "It's fine, honestly," he replied, managing a weak smile. "I'd rather have _you_ playing cards and petting cats than a clean house, you know.")

He peeled off his coat, which I grabbed and tossed on our dresser, and smiled sheepishly at him. He rolled his eyes before kicking off his shoes, the both of us hearing them clunk to the floor. I kept smiling, the expression frozen to my face-perhaps there was a flaw, a tiny bump, in my usually smooth planning.

"Feliks."

Funny to think we were on a first-name basis, seeing how just a few months ago, he still called me "Poland". Perhaps the level of intimacy-in every sense-went up when we began to live together.

"Like, what is it, Liet?"

He flushed, obviously wondering if he should go through with whatever he was planning to say. For once, I had absolutely no idea.

"D-don't look at me like that," he finally said.

I sat up, naked except for thin boxer shorts, the fabric of which ruffled in faint protest against the sheets. "Like what?"

"L-like the way you are n-now!"

I frowned instead, widening my eyes slightly in an expression of minor shock. Liet clenched his teeth, offering an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," we both said in unintentional unison.

"Jinx!" I called out, laughing wolfishly. "Liet, you, like, _totally_ owe me a soda now."

He smiled as well, a real one, and bopped my arm lightly. "I don't have any sodas."

"Like, next time we go out to eat, you totally owe me!" I was a bit more petulant in this, but my tone was still relatively jovial.

"Whatever," he said, and finally moved up so we were at eye level. I turned my head, looking him directly in those God damn beautiful green eyes and giving him a half-smile, eyelids lowered, just as I practiced.

"Kiss me," I ordered.

He obeyed.


End file.
